. The poetical works of Fitz-Greene Halleck : Now first collected ; illustrated with steel engravings, from drawings by American artists . dIts tale, and pointed to the spot, and wept,Whereon her father and five brothers sleptShroudless, the bright-dreamed slumbers of the brave,When all the land a funeral mourning kept. WYOMING. 41 And there, wild laurels planted on the graveBy Natures hand, in air their pale red blossoms wave. IX. And on the margin of yon orchard hillAre marks where timeworn battlements have been,And in the tall grass traces linger stillOf arrowy frieze and wedged
. The poetical works of Fitz-Greene Halleck : Now first collected ; illustrated with steel engravings, from drawings by American artists . dIts tale, and pointed to the spot, and wept,Whereon her father and five brothers sleptShroudless, the bright-dreamed slumbers of the brave,When all the land a funeral mourning kept. WYOMING. 41 And there, wild laurels planted on the graveBy Natures hand, in air their pale red blossoms wave. IX. And on the margin of yon orchard hillAre marks where timeworn battlements have been,And in the tall grass traces linger stillOf arrowy frieze and wedged hundred of her brave that valley greenTrod on the morn in soldier-spirit gay ;But twenty lived to tell the noonday scene—And where are now the twenty ? Passed Death no triumph-hours, save on the battle-day ? ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE, OP NEW-YORK, SEPT., 1820. The good die first,And they, whpse hearts are dry as summer dust,Burn to the socket. Wordsworth. Green be the turf above thee,Friend of my better days! None knew thee but to love thee,Nor named thee but to praise. r , • -^J, mm ^J /t^-c/-)^ t^d-nu^/ie^. Green, he the turf above thee , Fj ii I if my be11 er days X lij 11 ? knew tlieebu1 to lore the Nor named thee but to praise JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 43 Tears fell, when thou wert dying,From eyes unused to weep, And long where thou art lying,Will tears the cold turf steep. When hearts, whose truth was proven,Like thine, are laid in earth, There should a wreath be wovenTo tell the world their worth; And I, who woke each morrowTo clasp thy hand in mine, Who shared thy joy and sorrow,Whose weal and wo were thine: It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow,But Ive in vain essayed it, And feel I cannot now. While memory bids me weep thee,Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeplyThat mourns a man like thee.
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1850, bookidpoeticalworksoff001hall
